The Games We Play
by Lady Orez
Summary: Draco's an up and coming Rock Star and Hermione's the girl he picked up in a bar. Or is she? Turns out she works for legendary guitarist and music producer Sirius Black. "You look lost," he commented. "To be in a place like this, you'd have to be," she said. He crooked a slow grin at her. "Do you want to get lead astray a little more?"
1. Part 1: Sweet Thing

"Hey, girly," a low voice called, "what you doing in a place like this?"

That was how it all started, with a question.

Hermione Granger hadn't intended to answer, she'd intended to turn on her heel, find Ginny and get the hell out of there. But…

"Are you lost," he said.

It was a challenge, rather than a question.

He was a tall, with long blond hair falling in front of his eyes. His bare arms were pale, and in the fingers of one hand he held a thin cigarette. Ash fell from the tip, fluttering to the ground like cherry blossom.

Hermione could feel gooseflesh prickling up her arms, the spring breeze still held some of winter's chill, and she'd left her jacket in the bar.

He took a drag.

"You look lost," he commented.

"To be in a place like this," she repeated, and gestured a hand to the broken beer bottles and stained metal bins, "you'd have to be."

He crooked a slow grin at her.

"Guess that makes me somewhere far down the rabbit hole then."

He pushed himself off the graffitied wall, which he had been leaning on. In the glow of the streetlight his features were angular and stark. It was like his skin was stretched too far.

He exhaled. Smoke curled up, catching in the artificial light.

"Do you want to get lead astray a little more?"

His lips had been firm and cool against hers.

He smelt stale, and tasted like an ashtray.

But his hands were insistent and coaxing.

His fingers were nimble, snapping clasps and buttons wide open. Musician's hands, the finger tips worn and slight rough against her skin.

Ash blond hair hung in tendrils round his face, brushing rhythmically along her forehead, nose and lips.

She gasped; her breath hot and burning against his chest.

...

Hi, thank you to everyone who read this story. Reviews are so welcome, and I really love reading them.

The chapters in this story are short and are microfictions, which is a type of short prose writing; in which I try and use description and subtlety, rather than just straight narrative.


	2. Part 2: When it's good, it's really good

"Coffee?" He asked, holding out a chipped mug with the printed logo of The Rolling Stones on it.

Hermione took the cup. The coffee was hot and cheap, and thickly coated her tongue. She was lying on a makeshift bed, basically a mattress on the floor. But the sheets were surprisingly clean. The cotton had bubbled in the wash and it rubbed against her bare legs.

He sat next to where she lay. He was in a pair of black jeans, naturally ripped and faded round the knees. He held his own cup of coffee close to his face, as if the smell was as important as the drinking. His mug had a picture of David Bowie.

"You from round here?" He casually asked. His finger drummed out a beat on the mug, tapping Bowie's face with his finger tips.

"No, I'm from West London."

"Makes sense," he commented.

She sipped the coffee. "Why does it make sense?"

"You're far too posh to be from round here. You sound like you should be waking up in some Kensington apartment."

She couldn't argue with that, her last boyfriend had owned a beige coloured flat near Holland Park.

They drank in silence.

The mug clinked as he put it down on the wooden floor.

He proffered a pack of paper and tobacco at her.

"I don't smoke," she said.

"You smelt of smoke last night."

"My friend, she's a social smoker," Hermione explained.

He cupped the paper in his hand and pitched the dried leaf onto it.

"Social smoker, who the fuck is she kidding. You either smoke or you don't."

She silently agreed with him, but. "At least its an attempt to quit."

He ran his tongue along the paper, then rolled it all together. He made it thin and long.

She remembered the feel of his tongue on her.

"You're a singer, surly smoking is awful for that," she piped up.

He sighed and dragged on the cigarette,

"There is the old story about Bowie and Lulu," he exhaled, the smoke tickled her nose. "Bowie smoked like a fucking chimney back then. He gave Lulu the advice that if she wanted to keep making rock music she should smoke, get her voice husky and distinctive."

"And you believe that's how you'll get famous?"

He looked at her, properly looked at her for the first time this morning. His eyes were as grey as the vapour coiling from the red tip.

"Darlin' I'll be famous one day, and it damn well won't be because I smoke."


	3. Part 3: And when it's bad I go to pieces

"Is there somewhere I can wash up," she asked, placing her mug on the floor beside his.

"Down the hall, first right," he said, standing up from the mattress, "I'll be in the kitchen." He left.

The mirror above the skink was cracked and speckled with black dots. She looked a mess: her hair a brown halo and mouth was too red in colour. She did her best with water and a hair tie, curling her hair into a top knot. Her neck had a line of purple bruises.

He was leaning against the kitchen counter and looking out of the grubby window. The sky was a dank grey. It was going to rain for sure. That hot rain, which causing the humidity to rise and catch in your lungs.

There was a Bowie poster taped to the white washed wall, beside that was a reproduction poster of an old Billy Joel album cover.

She pulled out a chair from under the small table and watched him. His arms were bare and toned, but his wrists slim and thin and she could see the joints jutting clearly through his skin. She ran her hands over the cruddy table top, tiny pieces of tobacco leaves sticking to her fingers.

"I need to be heading out," he announced, still looking out the window.

"It's going to rain soon," she said, more to herself than him; thinking about her jacket which she'd never picked up from the club.

"This is London. It's always raining," he looked at her now, his grey eyes as heavy as the clouds. "Nearest tube is Camden Town, I'll walk to there. It's on my way."

The streets were busy and she felt conspicuous in her dress and heels, as if the whole truth of last night was etched on her face. He strolled beside her, in a pair of scuffled Dr Martens and an old looking leather jacket. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket.

"I thought you smoked roll ups?" She questioned.

"Only because the packets are pricey. Cigs are only for when roll ups are too fiddly to make. I didn't think you'd appreciate me stopping to roll a fag," he winked at her and lit the tip. At the first drag, an expression of pure bliss flowed over his face.

Hermione felt the rain begin to spit, tiny droplets hitting her exploded flesh. She shivered in anticipation of the downfall.

"Here," he slunk off his jacket and placed it round her shoulders. Underneath he was wearing a tatty Guns'N'Roses tank. It was loosely cut and through the neck she could see his firm chest and the small scratch marks she'd made across his pectorals.

"Thanks."

They walked in silence, the rain now a low drizzle that could be kept up all day.

The Underground's neon sign came into view. Standing to the side of the steps, she looked up at him. There were shadows under his eyes, like smudges of blue eyeshadow. His lips were dry and an unhealthy pale pink. His own neck had matching bruises to her own.

She slipped the jacket off.

"Keep it," he said. He stubbed out the fag with the flat of his boot, squashing the lit end into the damp ground.

"But -"

"Keep it till tonight. My band are playing, bring it to the gig. Flyer is in the pocket."

He guided the heavy material back over her shoulders. Taking hold of the jacket's lapels he pulled her closer. His mouth met her's. He still tasted of ash and now the bitter tang of coffee was added to the mix. She softly moved her lips under his.

He broke the kiss.

"Till tonight," and he walked away. She watched his retreating back, the rain quickly soaking his tank and sticking the material to his body. She stuffed her hand into the jacket's oversized pockets. Her found the laminated flyer, but her finger's also traced along the edges of cardboard cigarette packet.

...

Thank you to Dancing-Souls for the review.


	4. Part 4: Right Here In My Arms

When she arrived the gig was packed. Although warm bodies pressed up against her, she didn't remove his jacket. She manoeuvred through the crowed, aiming for the right of the stage. The air smelt of beer and sweat. The sound of chatter was occasionally broken by a pitched shriek of a woman's laugh or the loud bellow of a man.

On the stage, she recognised the rest of his band setting up the equipment. She looked from right to left, but she couldn't see him. No flash of white blond hair or pale skin.

The jacket was a noticeably weight on her shoulders, as if someone had an arm protectively slung over her. The flyer was still wedged into the pocket, but at the first opportunity she'd thrown away the packet of cigarettes. The image of those blacked lungs made her feel sick.

A murmur reverberated through the stuffed room, a hushed whisper that flowed over her like a wave on the shore. The lights dimmed, so only the echo of shapes remained visible. Like the striking of a match, a single white beam lit the stage. From the wings, he swaggered on.

"You all'ight," he shouted at the crowed, which responded in kind. He positioned himself behind the microphone, his lips brushing over the chrome head. His long fingers curled round the stand, and caressed the length like a lover. Suddenly, the a drum beat started, a strong rhythm like the coming of some ancient beast.

As the music crashed around him, he scanned the crowed. Stopping when he caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye. His sharp mouth crooked, and like a hook reeled her in.

His voice was a baritone, a deep rumbled that she could feel in her chest. The lyrics were generic, all about the throws of passion and the agony of love. It was him who made those songs; his hips clad in leather and gyrating against some caporal being.

In spite of herself, she found her hands touching the front of her thighs; her palms softly rubbing in time to his delicious beat.

He would occasionally look her way, as if checking to see she hadn't gone anywhere. She wondered what he would do if she went, would he chase after her? She decided she was afraid of finding out the answer to that question.

With the final rattle of the base guitar it was over and the hum of past music settled over the room. The crowed were very responsive and they're noise lingering on, not just simple appreciation. She kept her eyes locked on that part of the stage that he had performed on.

"Hi, you came," he said, appearing next to her.

"I had to give you your jacket back," she replied, wincing at the lameness.

"Sure thing darlin'," he smirked. "you just keep telling yourself that." He took hold of the jacket, slipping it off her shoulders and shrugged into to his. He placed a firm arm round her waist, his finger's curling under her rips. "Come on, we're going to the after party."

...

If you want to see the type of performance I'm talking about check out Ville Valo, the lead singer of HIM, perform live.


	5. Part 5: New Killer Star

Calling it an 'after party' was an optimistic description. It reminded her of the drinking parties at university: full of beer, drum and bass, and smoke.

As they sidled into the room, Hermione was struck by how many people she recognised from her work. Draco hadn't asked about her job and she'd not mention it either, nor who her employer was.

"Hermione," said the familiar deep voice of Dean Thomas. Dean approached them and it reminded Hermione of when he was on stage; he'd separate himself from the rest of the jazz band, and open his trumpet solo with a sweet slow note.

"Hi Dean. Have you met Draco before?" she greeted. Draco's arm tightened perceptibly around her waist.

"Yes, once or twice," Dean confirmed, and she got the distinct impression that he and Draco were not on good terms. "What you doing here?" Dean asked her. The oppressive heat of the room had caused his dark hair to stick to this forehead, giving him a sort of juvenile fringe.

"Came with Draco," she answered, trying to keep her tone casual.

"Ha," Dean gave a derisive laugh, "knew you'd find him sooner of later. Can keep the girls off this one." Dean gestured at Draco with the lip of his beer bottle.

"She's got good taste," Draco said and slipped his hand down to cup the side of her hip.

Draco's movement caused Dean to look down and at his pale hand resting at the top of her leg. Dean's expression soured. Turning to Draco, Dean coolly commented, "Always knew you'd be one to sleep to the top Malfoy." With a curt nod at Hermione, Dean left and was swallowed up by the party.

"What did he mean by that?" Draco asked, his usual effortless composure somewhat rattled.

Hermione sighed. The smell of sweat was mingling with the beer. Half naked bodies gyrated on a makeshift dance floor, grinding to the deep base that boomed from a professional looking sound system.

"I need a drink," she weakly said and extracted herself from his grip. Bottles and mixers were laid out, like a liquid feast, on an wobbly fold out table. She picked up a half empty bottle of white rum and a red paper cup. Even in the crowd, she could feel the presence of Draco's body beside her.

She watched his hand reach for the relatively untouched bottle of Jack Daniels. He didn't take a cup.

"Why does Dean bleedin' Thomas think I'm sleeping my way to the top?" He unscrewed the lid and took a deep swig. She picked up a lemonade can and poured the fizzing soda over her meagre amount of rum.

"Probably because of who I work for," she quietly said and sipped her drink, her lips sticking to the rim of the paper cup.

"Work for who?"  
"My boss is Sirius Black, the founded of Black Records."

"As in the guitarist Sirius Black? One of the best strummers of the Twenty First Century, Sirius Black?" Draco hurriedly asked.  
"That'll be him," she clarified and took another demure sip.

"Fuckin' hell." Draco ran his hands down his jacket and into the pockets, patting them down. She had a feeling he was searching for the cigarettes she'd thrown out earlier in the day.

His search unfruitful, he sighed and tugged a hand through his hair which fell over his face; like a curtain screening a stage during the interval of a play.

"So when I picked you up last night, you weren't just a posh bint looking for some action," he accused, pulling his papers out of his jean's pocket, "you were actually scouting my gig?" He looked at her expectantly, his grey eyes shining silver excitement.

"Something like that," she admitted, keeping her gaze locked on his.

"And I've totally cocked it up." He lazily brushed his free hand across her cheek before sardonically adding, "Literally." His fingers caressed down her cheek to run along the line of her jaw. "Have I? Have I fucked everything up?" He cupped the back of her neck and played with her curls.

She didn't answer, but she took another sip of her drink.

Draco gave a low grow of frustration and kissed her. His mouth was hard and insisting against her's; almost like his lips were searching for the answer he wanted. He slipped his tongue past her lips and rubbed the sensitive roof of her mouth, eliciting a small moan from her. Satisfied with her reaction, he pulled back looked down at her flushed face with steely eyes.

"Well, Hermione?" He asked and coaxingly stroked the back of her neck.

She gave him a slow confident simile. "I'll think about it."


	6. Part 6: Uneasy Listening

He took her free hand in his and laced their fingers. In his other hand held the neck of the bottle of Jack. The amber liquid sloshed against the sides, as he pulled her through the dancing bodies and towards a cluster of chairs and sofas in the corner of the room.

He twirled her to the beat of the music, before depositing her in a sagging armchair. He perched on the arm and slung an leather clad sleeve round the back of the chair, so he was balanced over her petite form.

"So," he said, playing with a curl of her hair, "how did a square like you end up working for Black?"

"I went to university with his Godson, Harry," she quipped.

"Ex-boyfriend?" he asked, taking another curl in his fingers.

"No."

"Then just _really_ good friend."

"I don't know what you do with your friends, but Harry and I are just friends."

"Fine, I believe you."

She could tell he didn't; but she let it slide.

"So you were at uni with this guy and…" he tipped the bottle of Jack, signalling her to continue.

"I used to write for the student paper, go and review local bands. Harry showed my work to Sirius," she elaborated and sipped her drink. The lemonade was rapidly flattening, turning into a syrupy concoction. "Sirius offered me a job straight after I graduated. I was hardly going to refuse, what with all my student debt."

"And whats old Sirius Black like?" he asked, unscrewing the metal lid.

"Nice, I believe he's mellowed somewhat since his touring days."

"It would be hard not to," Draco snorted. He poured a liberal amount of Jack into her paper cup, before swigging from the bottle.

She looked down at her drink; the lemonade had blended with the Jack creating a bubbly amber mix. She took a swig and coughed.

"Ah sorry," Draco said, "Jack is rough as balls if you're not used to it."

He rubbed her back as she spluttered.

"Easy girl," he breathed, "take the next sip slower."

"How can you drink this stuff straight," she asked and took another cautious drink. The liquid still burned, but she managed not to cough.

"Between the smoking and drinking, I don't have many tastebuds left," he wryly said. As if her question had reminded him, he fished out his papers once more. "Did Sirius ever tell you about that time in Cairo?" he asked, lifting the thin paper to his lips.

"No?"

"When he was arrested."

"He's been arrested many times during his career."

"This time was special though. He was arrested right after a concert, something about drug smuggling I think. Either way," the lighter flared and he lit the tip, "he gets stripped down and searched. But you see when you wear leather trousers you can get awful chaffing-"

"I can't imagine," she quipped.

He chuckled, the smoke curled from his mouth in short puffs.

"The chaffing is terrible, trust me," he winked. "And a trick Sirius learned was to wear ladies underwear instead of boxers."

"What?" she laughed.

"Exactly." He took another drag. "So Sirius is standing in this Egyptian prison wearing nothing but ladies frilly knickers."

"And what happened after that?"

"The Cairo police took one look at him, or should I say look at the panties, and banged him up. They ended up sending some quack to see him. Turns out the doctor was a fan, smoothed talked over the whole issue for Sirius."

"Was he drug smuggling?"

"Nah, just paracetamol. I'm surprised you didn't know about the knicker trick?"

"It's hardly something you'd tell on of your employees," she remained. "But I hope you're not about to tell me that you're wearing ladies underwear tonight?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"I guess," he whispered, "you'll have to find out."

She took another sip. The paper cup was warping, the thick card buckling under her hand. She tipped her pale neck back and swallowed the rest of the drink.

"Was that wise?" Draco asked. The cigarette was hanging out from his smirking mouth, smoke pouring from his nose like a dragon's fire.

"I don't care," she said and took the fag from between his lips. She dropped the lit end into the dregs of her drink and it sizzled as it died.

"Oi-" Draco started to say, but her lips cut him off.

He eagerly kissed her back. The bottle of Jack pressed into her back as he embraced her. Her fingers swiftly stretched up to his neck and played with the his collar. The worn cotton was soft and thin under her questing fingers.

Draco pulled away with a small hiss.

"My place or your's?" he asked.

"Mine, I have a better bed," she said and slipped her hands under his jacket to feel his firm skin.


End file.
